Missing the Quiet (from the 80’s)

I have these moments when I long for life, say, in the 80’s, because this is the quiet life I most clearly recall. This was life before technology threatened a comfort with silence and stole away my ability to wait patiently in a line and stare at the wall, or perhaps at the patterns on the women's hat in front of me.

What I long for are those moments just before a thunderstorm, when the thick, sticky air of a summer afternoon ushered me home - When all I thought to do was crawl downstairs, nestle under a blanket and watch a movie for the 30th time. We only had a few videos to choose from. I recall having to press the rewind button and listen to the gentle clicky wheeling sound so not to get in trouble from my father or the man at our neighbourhood video store - the video store where we spent hours upon hours considering which movie was the next on our A list, because watching a new movie from beginning to end required thoughtfulness, commitment and was most certainly a privilege.

…and then as the clouds burst the rain would come, cleansing the steamy world once again. With this invitation, my sister and I would run outside and jump in ditches filled with warm fresh water and floating pieces of grass and we’d watch it flood the corner of the backyard and perhaps we would make a paper boat and sail her down the rivers that hugged the cul-de-sac edge.

These were the moments when during the peak of the storm it seemed like it was night. My mother would quietly iron the laundry while watching Days of Our Lives, that is, if we weren’t watching a movie. Unlike today, we only had access to one screen. Maybe she would read a magazine and drink a coffee. Maybe she was cooking something in the kitchen listening to her own thoughts, not the thoughts of someone else, like podcasts require us to now.

It was ok to not know about everything all of the time, and even if I wanted to know what was happening all of the time, I had to wait until 6pm when the news came on and my parents filled me in. The rest of the day I remained blissfully present, even if it was unintentional, because I had nothing else to distract my attention from the butterfly on the side l walk, or the new house being built on the corner, or the sounds of the neighbours’ cats fighting again. 

It was ok to only talk to my neighbours in the morning on the way to school. It was ok to lie on my back and stare at the sky and daydream, for real, not because a book on the art of manifestation told me this is what to do. 

I long for the sounds of nature uninterrupted by wifi waves and the dings of a text message. The times when receiving a letter in the mail from my cousin in Vancouver was the best thing I could imagine. 

I can only imagine how my nervous system might feel waking up in the morning without an obligation to tune into a highway of information before I’ve even made my coffee.

I feel so trapped in this technological dreamcoat of life sometimes. It makes me sad that Noah didn’t get to grow up in a beautiful 80’s bubble. It’s impossible to go back isn’t it? I imagine there are benefits to this new life too; but, really, are they actually beneficial, or is that what we tell ourselves to make the numbing out of presence feel acceptable?

Living in the city used to tantalize my senses because of the surrounding lights, sounds and people. Now the stimulation of the city follows me regardless of where I am. 

I’m completely aware that it's actually all a choice and I can choose to change how I interact with the world. I just worry that I’ve come too far now and the habits are actually addictions and my body is so used to adrenaline and a fury of noise that she is actually terrified of what the real quiet would bring. 

A part of me longs for it and a part of me knows what commitment the change requests. 

Regardless, I have the fondest memories of these quiet years before the world asked me to pay attention to so much, constantly. I wish I could go back, knowing I can’t unlearn something that’s beyond my control anyways. 

All I pray for is the awareness and strength to share as many quiet moments with Noah as possible, so that he too can stand in a line and stare at the wall feeling entirely comfortable with only doing that. 

xx

The Dark Night of the Soul Sucks.

You know those full moon nights…

The nights when we know the moon is full because our calendar tells us so, and because we feel an intensity stirring beneath the top layer of our skin, which has to be attributed to some greater astrological pull igniting our inner animalistic instincts to howl? …and yet, it’s one of those nights when the sky is shrouded by a thick layer of steamy clouds and so we can’t even reflect on the source of the intensity? 

You know those nights? 

Well I’m realising that I’m feeling rather stuck, lying sleepless beneath a grey layer of clouds, yet to be greeted by the rays of my insightful friend, the moon.

While dipping my toes in numerous contemporary esoteric communities, I’ve come across the term ‘Dark Night of the Soul’. I’ve often wondered where the term comes from and I’ve always sensed it describes a significantly challenging and yet potentially transformational life phase. I decided to verify my intuition by looking it up:

The 16th century poem, Dark Night of the Soul narrates the journey of the soul to mystical union with God. The journey is called "The Dark Night" in part because darkness represents the fact that the destination—God—is unknowable. (Wikipedia)

Well that certainly explains it - I am most definitely going through one of these dark night phases and I’m staring through the cracks of my window blinds praying for the first whispers from dawn. 

Perhaps I can attribute being stuck in this dark night purgatory because a part of my psyche constantly compares my privileged, westernised life to the lives of millions of others suffering globally. What this part of my mind tells me is that comparatively, what I am feeling vulnerable or worried about shouldn’t matter. I therefore, believe that my feelings don't matter, I begin repressing the actuality of the pain I have stored in my cells and my nervous system remains jammed on hyperdrive.

I understand intellectually why dismissing my feelings isn’t helpful. I understand this concept well. I completely understand why dismissing the worthiness of my feelings disregards valid emotions and ultimately, is me gaslighting myself. I can clearly see how debilitating this behaviour is and yet, it’s happening.

I’m also considering that I refuse to teach something that I haven’t yet experienced. I don’t believe I have to be perfect at something or have it all figured out, and I do believe that leading someone to listen to their own guidance system requires me having listened to my guidance system. 

So, darn, I guess I’m in training once again. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in training and I’m also very happy. I have an awesome life with an awesome family, we have so much fun together. I have buckets of gratitude and I’ve also become aware of trenches of fear. It’s hard to hold two entirely opposing feelings at the same time, so much so that my mind doesn’t know what on earth to do with it all?

The main problem with this dark night is that I’ve realised there’s no thinking my way out of it. It’s an experience mostly unaffected by my thoughts and, is therefore even more frustrating as my thoughts love to hold the reins. 

Despite this, I also feel love and loved like never before. I feel it exploding like the first rays of morning light out of my skin. Perhaps my increased vulnerability is a result of an increased capacity for the experience of love itself? Actually, I have no doubt that this is exactly what’s happening. 

Who invented this love thing anyways? It causes vulnerability on steroids.

Despite studying trauma, trauma responses, associated behaviours and somatic techniques used to regulate my nervous system, anxiety remains a living, breathing, suffocating experience repeatedly activated in me. I have yet to fully embody my intellectual wisdom. I’m working on it and quite disappointingly, it’s taking longer than I had hoped. 

As a highly empathic woman and now, adding to the title, an insanely empathic mother, I’ve been struggling when I hear any unsettling news about anything whatsoever. Disturbing stories run vividly through my mind. Despite all conscious attempts to separate, I feel the suffering of everyone involved. I don’t want to, but I experience their perceived pain as if it’s my own. I unconsciously begin to replay the events at random times throughout the day, times when I least expect the horrific stories to surface. It’s incredibly annoying to say the least.

Even some of the most noteworthy Netflix binge recommendations have hurtled me over the edge into a state of full bodily threat.

This is when I assume my dark night began...

On the morning of Sunday, January 12, 2020,  I was lying in bed next to my three and a half month old son. I was soaking in a few last glimpses of rest before taking on another blind day of motherhood. 

I was using my phone as a sound machine to help Noah sleep, and therefore, I always switched it to airplane mode prior to bed; as a result, I didn’t receive the repeated missed calls from my best friend in Vancouver, or should I call her my ‘other sister’.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened and Patrick rushed in looking shocked and panicked in a way that requested my nervous system to brace and mirror his body language. I was instantly terrified. All he could manage was to say these words, ‘Lisa. You have to call Britt right now. Elijah is dead.’

(Even today my stomach grips in terror as I write these words on the page. To this day I don’t believe it’s true).

I can’t recall the exact details following or perhaps I don’t want to. The next few days was a whirlwind as I prepared to get a passport for Noah, book flights and arrange to get back to Canada as soon as possible.

Elijah is Britt’s youngest son. On that day he was seventeen years old and is one of the most unique, emotionally mature, deeply caring, talented, courageous, creative, honest and loving young men I have had the pleasure to call my family. I’ve known Elijah since he was eight years old. I was lucky enough to attend his school plays, his grade six graduation, lounge on his couch while he played in his tent outside with his friends. I stared in awe as he announced he wanted to start breakdancing even though he would be the only boy in the class. He didn’t care. He is so sure of who he is. He always has been. He still is. 

He died attempting to help a friend. He went out in the middle of the night to help a friend in need, he hit a slippery patch on the road and he was killed instantly. It’s too horrific to write. It makes it real and I still can’t handle that it’s real.

Noah and I made it to Canada. It was the hardest trip I’ve ever chosen to embark on, and I wouldn’t ever have considered not going. The only thing I wish I could change (apart from having previously invented a time machine to change history) is that I wish I could have had more energy and time to hold my beloved Britt in my arms over those two weeks that followed. 

Something during those weeks, as a new mother, who already feels so deeply about the world, something in me shifted. Perhaps it shifted from an ignorantly calm and overconfident state to a state of constant awareness of what the world is capable of shattering when I least expect it. 

I somehow managed to survive the first three months of motherhood relatively unscathed. This is surprising considering the fact that shortly after Noah took his first breath of air, we entered into a season of deathly fires - fires that killed wildlife in numbers I do not wish to think about. Fires that displaced thousands and tore through beloved homes and fields where memories had been carved for what was assumed to be a predictable eternity. The fires left me nurturing a new born baby amongst some of the most toxic air quality levels, in a small apartment in the heat of Sydney summer. 

Although I felt the effects of the fires in my cells and my heart and struggled on many days to handle the monstrosity of the damage, somehow, I still managed to maintain a general level of trust in life and a feeling of immediate safety.

After I found out that Elijah had passed away, something in my nervous system, in my cells, in my blood, in my thoughts changed. I didn’t realise it consciously then, but looking back, that’s when it happened. 

A few months later, I was walking along my favourite oceanfront cliffs, pushing Noah in his pram. My Dad called, I answered. He said hello and I could immediately tell that something wasn’t quite right. This is because my Dad never has anything but the purest exuberant, maybe even a bit over the top greeting ready to welcome me. He said he had some really sad news. 

I braced myself. I wish I had thought to become aware of feeling my body at that moment. The more I learn about trauma and regulating unbalanced trauma responses, the more I’m recognising the reactions are stored in my tissue, organs - in my energetic body. It’s not my fault that the response is stored here, I didn’t choose it, it happens. My body is trained so beautifully to protect me from threats. It has been doing its duty perfectly.

The words that came out of my Dad’s mouth were, yet again, too incomprehensible to process. My cousin Jason, my beloved, gentle, kind, strong, incredibly wise, generous, highly intelligent and patient cousin had passed away suddenly. I won’t go into more details, and, I was set up yet again for an intense heartbreak that no one should have to, but life asks us to endure. 

Life felt a little bit more unsafe.

Less than two months later we found out that one of Patrick’s closest friends, an equally vibrant, sparkly, adventurous, deeply funny and loving human had passed away in a tragic and still unclear circumstance. 

There it was once again. This time I was having to sit beside Patrick and watch him endure the pain of loss of someone I know he cared deeply for. 

Life felt a little bit more unsafe. 

Within these painful losses was Covid. It was August by this stage and we already had to endure six months of lockdown and the loss of a visit from Noah’s Nana, (Patrick’s mother). She was packed and heading to the airport, thrilled to finally meet her now six month old first grandchild when the world closed its doors. We were thrilled at the thought of watching her cuddle Noah in her arms. She couldn’t come. It was okay for a little while but then the waiting started to feel unfair, almost illegal. 

It feels unfair that my Dad has yet to squish Noah’s chubby legs. It feels unfair that I haven’t been in a room with both of my parents for over three years, never mind receiving necessary family hugs. 

At the time, I was acutely aware that I was feeling the exact same feelings as so much of the rest of the world and so, yet again, I disowned my emotions and pushed them aside. 

Flash forward to a year later, I had assumed I could have resumed a feeling of safety. I had assumed that I shouldn’t be repeatedly stalled by a horrible electrical charge running through my skin, called fear. I wish I could say that my anxiety isn’t running rampant on most days, but that wouldn’t be the truth. The truth is, I’ve been living many happy moments and I’ve also been having a really hard time. 

In June, I found out I had Skin Cancer. They caught it early and I was fortunate that it hadn’t spread. Suddenly, the beliefs I held around my own resilience and predicted longevity were questioned. I was deeply confronted by the C word. 

So here I sit, with many other moments worthy of contemplating and sharing and the details aren’t what’s important, the truth is important. The truth is that today, at times, I feel deeply unsafe. I feel deeply sad that the world is filled with both magnificent beauty and an equal dose of pain. I feel equally excited and terrified about life and the future of our planet and the future of our children. I feel terrified that I could die before I’m done living. I’m terrified of ever losing someone I love again. I’m so, so terrified. 

Admittedly, I don’t feel like I’ve been handling the uncontrollable reality of life very well at all. Some days I have perspective and I am filled with presence and laughter. Some days I go for a jog through the bush and every leaf and rock seem like my best friends. Some days I can openly receive the wealth of support from friends and loved ones beside me, and, simultaneously, in some moments I feel truly alone in the vulnerable, surrendering process called accepting reality. 

...and here my mind goes again…

As my awareness connects to Britt, and I picture her sitting on her inviting white couch, suddenly gripped by the horrific reality that her soulmate Elijah isn’t sitting beside her; as I think about her pain, I no longer feel like I should be permitted to be feeling unsettled, but I am. 

Actually, I must admit what I’m feeling because I have a deep rooted hope that others going through difficult times can find capacity and validation for what they are feeling. I hope they may feel acknowledged and receive compassion regardless of the circumstance. I hope that others know that it’s completely okay to feel both gratitude and not okay simultaneously. 

Personally, I’m working on it. It’s a baby-step process. As I enjoy the bubbly, hilarious and exquisite moments life has to offer me, I’m also trying to gently embody the darker ones too. As uncomfortable and confronting as it may be, here’s to healing and everything it requests.

May I develop a capacity for peacefulness again, by learning to accept what is stored in my body today, by listening, holding and breathing into it until it feels safe once again, and by releasing that which I cannot control. 

May everyone develop a capacity for peace. 

With no further ado,  the past two years have absolutely felt like a cloudy full moon night, which brings me to the conclusion that the dark night of the soul, although potentially enlightening and life altering, well, it just plain old sucks and I pray that this ‘life training’ is over very soon!

Signing off,

Lisa xx

Childbirth - The Greatest Opportunity to Embody Faith

From my experience, pregnancy is a contradictory phenomenon. It’s the most profound expression of nature’s magic and is, simultaneously, the most common process known to man. 

I don’t believe I have adequate knowledge to begin making claims about what a mother should or shouldn’t do, think or not think, experience or not experience during pregnancy and childbirth. I do, however, have decades of experience exploring the limits of my own physical body, (mostly by pushing it too far), as well as researching my psychological and emotional behaviour.

I’ve spent thousands of hours quietly listening to the other realms that make up this world. I wouldn’t claim to understand them, though I admit that I have a naturally intuitive gift to listen.

I have also spent thousands of hours overthinking multiple aspects of life, philosophising about whether there is a possible meaning associated with every occurrence, (typically to my detriment).

I, like everyone, have survived numerous uncomfortable life lessons.

I have (reluctantly) acknowledged these humble moments as opportunities and have (reluctantly) chosen to spend over twenty five years attempting to unravel my psyche. I’ve luckily been guided by many incredible spiritual mentors and therapists; thus, enabling me at times to access an internal intelligence beyond that which seems to exist in my surface thoughts.

Some days, if I’m feeling grounded and balanced, I have developed the ability to communicate with ancestors who have passed, (sometimes anyways, I definitely don’t label myself as a psychic medium).

I have come to understand a lot about energy and how it, in itself, is an entirely unique aspect of life that society is only beginning to acknowledge.

I presume that for thousands of years, indigenous populations around the globe have dedicated generations after generations listening to the earth and to spirit, connecting with nature, especially plants and animals. They have somehow attuned to a subtle intelligence so that they can, very simply, continue to survive and flourish. 

In a connectivity-addicted world, it’s extremely challenging to find a quiet space not yet interrupted by information highways bombarding the ‘purer energetic comms’.

It’s challenging, but not impossible.

In my opinion, listening requires practice, patience and a lot of time. These days, people don’t like to hear that something is going to require a lot of time, (myself included). In my opinion, this is one of humanity’s greatest misfortunes, potentially a catalyst for our very own demise.

There appears to be many excited, positive and open-minded people developing an ability to listen. Maybe they are sensing the more subtle earthly elements and may feel drawn to share what they see? I salute the curious who are dedicated to learning more about themselves and nature. I also observe what I like to cheekily label as the ‘millennial spiritual hipsters’ and I’m reminded of the advice offered from one of my most respected yoga teachers:

Birthing a beginner student requires a minimum of twenty years of committed daily practice, coupled with the survival of numerous life experiences, and a sourced ability to respond in a conscious way.

Two decades into my personal spiritual research, I couldn't agree with him more. I’m very hesitant to be drawn into wellness communities where claims are being stated on an hourly basis for ways to clear your energy or connect to a higher vibration because the host has completed a three month online course. There’s nothing wrong with doing a course, but I definitely tip toe around those making absolute claims after very short periods of experience.

It seems to me like many of these ‘instantaneous gurus’ are lacking the experience (called time) that enables the most potent and humble guidance system (called wisdom).

Spiritual bypassing is a confusing and abusive by product of this trend. I cringe when I observe some of the unfounded allegations being made, yes with seemingly positive intentions, but completely lacking practical facts, emotional responsibility and compassion.

Because of these observations, I’ve felt terrified to share my own learnings, even when they have a solid foundation, stemming from years of curiosity and practice. As a result, I must conclude this:

I’m still a student. Let this be clear. Absolutely a student. Perhaps at times, also an ignorant, egotistical and biased one. This being said, I am coming to terms with the fact that I know that I have developed through personal experience of successes and failures and time, adequate tools and resources to share what I have learned not as an expert but as a beginner student. 

So how does this relate to pregnancy and childbirth? Well, it seemed essential to offer an intro and disclaimer prior to delicately sharing one of my theories about creating a human and bringing him or her earth side.

Insert Noah.

At about age thirty-five, I finally admitted to myself that I wanted to have a baby. I’m forty-one now and have a gorgeous two year old maniac of a son. It took me a while to get my head around the request for service that parenting entails. I wasn't sure I had it in me to give up my life, freedom, career, time, etc. Little did I know how incorrect this view was, (this story for another day). 

Around this time, as the concept of becoming a mother floated through my psyche, I recall sitting in meditation and seeing a little boy. He had white blond hair and was playing in the water out front of my local beach. I swore he must be mine. 

Life proved me wrong, this little white-haired boy was in fact my precious nephew. I was fortunate to hold my sister's hand as she accessed an unfathomable inner strength to help him take his first breath of air. 

My nephew played on that very beach during the first year of his life. I then experienced visions of two other children and I was baffled with who they were and I questioned my intuition, (as I have many times before). I hesitantly stored these visions in the back of my mind. 

It was only a year and a half into my relationship with my fiance when I saw my son. He whispered in my ear for about six months prior to his arrival. I asked him to advise me when I was ready to become a parent and when he wanted to come. I asked and heard nothing. I asked again, still nothing. 

It was nearing the Christmas holidays and I was beginning to write off this imaginary soul whom I felt a deep connection to, when suddenly one morning, I sat quietly and I heard a voice whisper, ‘Now’. 

My fiance and I discussed beginning to try for a child, well aware that being in our late thirties, it could take a while to conceive. 

A month later, I was pregnant. 

I knew that my son had a fiery energy the second his cells began to multiply. I loved having him in me and I was aware that I was being challenged on every physical, mental and emotional level. I vomited for nine months until the day he arrived. Once I held him in my arms, I felt entirely myself again and thus began the fourth trimester, another adventure in itself...

As I attempted to prepare my mind, spirit and body for the raw opening that is childbirth, I became privy to the realisation that I needn’t hold one hundred percent responsibility for what was about to take place.

What I’m referring to is different from what my midwife advised. She asked me to envision my ideal birth and be open to change as the process is unpredictable on the day. From a practical perspective I completely understood this, but from an emotional or embodied place, I was feeling detached. Between the urge to vomit and a desire to crawl underneath my blanket, I tried desperately to meditate. Despite my inability to feel intuitively connected, one day I was gifted an explanation of how this thing called ‘birth’ seems to work:

My baby will have the birth he or she needs to have for his or her life. I can do every preparatory exercise imaginable to prepare for the most calm, surrendering experience and yet, I will only be in control of half the birthing experience and result. 

I was both shocked and relieved to understand that I was only in control of part of this process. I’ve always really liked to control things, still do. A part of me hated the idea that one of the most important moments of my life was only half within my control. The other part of me who puts constant pressure on myself was finally allowed to exhale. 

The beneficial result of trying on this gifted concept was that I absolutely had no choice but to start taking some of the pressure off of myself. I’m highly esteemed at setting intentions and high expectations, followed by criticising my results and feeling deeply guilty if things don’t go exactly to plan. Actually, I’m quite excellent at this!

Pregnancy was different for me. Noah was asking me to give myself over to him on every level. Being sick and therefore, unable to do very much at all, forced me to surrender in a way I never had before. 

The beliefs I held about exercise and achieving were destroyed during the months I held my son inside of me. He did not let me get away with my old ways of thinking and doing. The teaching was non-negotiable. 

Unfortunately, now that he’s in the outside world, I have reverted back to some of my psychopathic perfectionist tendencies and I’m keenly aware of my behaviour and I’m doing my best to soften. Some days I get it right and feel like I’m momentarily able to rest. 

If there are any other mothers right now, preparing to welcome their child into the world, and are feeling a degree of pressure to perform during childbirth, let me offer a consideration (not advice), just a learning from my experience:

It’s not all on you. 

Is it possible, as a mother, to become deeply quiet to listen to our children to let them enter as they choose?

My birth story was exquisite and, according to my hopes and expectations, I did a number of things wrong. Although I still harbour guilt for some of these ignorant choices, the truth is, I believe that Noah entered exactly as he was supposed to, with my fiance and sister exploding with awe. 

If I could do it all again, this is what I’d propose to myself…

Can you become so quiet that you allow your child to be heard? Can you take some of the pressure off of yourself? Can you let your baby guide you during the process? Can you trust your power and instincts? Can you let what happened be complete just as it is? 

To remain humble, it’s possible that my beliefs about how a mother welcomes her baby into the world aren’t accurate.

These insights only relate to my personal experience of becoming a mother. I would never assume that anyone else has the same observations. If it resonates and helps in some way, fabulous. If it doesn’t, then I’m perfectly content to keep the theory as mine alone.

This being said, I’m still happy to share what these beliefs offered me:

Within this moment coupling extreme power and extreme surrender, I was taught how to apply faith itself. 

Maybe, this was one of the rare moments when I truly embodied the concept called trust. 

A part of me sometimes argued my beliefs, assuming that every mother has a duty of care to her unborn child to ensure the safest and most peaceful entry into this world.

As much as this concept also feels true, I personally experienced an overwhelming sense of Noah’s determined spirit even when he was only a few cells. I wouldn’t dare to remove the willpower from the spirit of my baby either. Babies are undeniably life and love in its purest undisturbed form and who really knows how this whole life thing works anyways?

For me, childbirth seems to request this…

May the willpower of the soul be coupled with the listening, strength and surrender of the mother; thus, for even a brief moment, coupling the most transformational elements of nature itself. 

To all the mothers and soon to be mummas out there, I believe that you know what to do and you are amazing! 

Xx

Navigating the Vulnerability of Judgment.

I’ve always appreciated science and its processes - Research, hypothesize, observe, test multiple times, observe again, compare with previous results, come to a conclusion, educate others.

Despite my fascination with scientific discoveries, what I appreciate even more is personal experience - Living, breathing, feeling, listening, watching, knowing. 

For me, experience is alive, it is moving and continuous. There isn’t a fixed beginning and an absolute end. Experience reflects the nature of life itself, the ongoing and incomprehensible cycle of giving, taking, destroying, replenishing, opening, closing, creating and releasing. I feel comfortable relating to this embodied world. Although I curiously dip my toes into the scientific pool on a regular basis, (thrilled by the latest revelations), the only absolute truth that I live by is that which has been proven to me by first existing within me. 

Regarding current philosophies, dogmas, conclusions, opinions, suspicions and judgments, I prefer to reside in the neutral position. Life consistently reveals to me how easily something I swore was true yesterday can be trumped by something new - A humbling experience that I’ve consciously chosen to avoid. 

In reality, how can anyone say they know the absolute truth? Is that even possible?

There are select moments however, where perhaps still naively, I feel that I have earned adequate personal experience to maintain a strong position. My argument is debated a millions times over, (of course, only between the multiple personalities in my head) but still, I win the debate every time. When I feel a sense of confidence and assurity, this is one of the rare occasions that I confidently share my opinions. 

I don’t know how everyone else is handling this, but within these very strange and often polarising times, I’m feeling confused. I’m feeling confused by my ability to maintain a compassionate and neutral relationship to another’s strong opinion when it opposes that which I feel deeply passionate about.

I’m trying really hard to appreciate that someone else may feel just as passionately about a conflicting view, and I understand that non-judgement is the more mature and respectful position to hold, however, if I were to claim that I’m not judging those with a contrary belief to mine, then I would be lying.

Does anyone else struggle with this too? 

I do find myself capable of maintaining a level of mutual respect and appreciation for the other belief in that I don’t resolve to hatred and verbal condemnation. This being said, I do one hundred percent quietly judge my opposers for their beliefs, (sometimes even loudly to intimate friends). 

How on earth could I not? How can I, a vulnerable, emotion-filled human, maintain my strong-willed opinion based on what I deem to be more than adequate embodied experience whilst maintaining a non-judgemental perception simultaneously? Is that even possible? 

Can someone who has done this please tell me how they handle it and sleep at night?

Here’s an example: I'm a mother of a rambunctious and beautifully social almost two-year old boy. I feel very strongly about some of my parenting beliefs, specifically in regards to honouring and supporting his emotional needs. 

After surviving many sleepless nights, both from Noah kicking my ass with multiple wake ups and my own psychosis of questioning whether I’m doing the right thing to be a good mother, I’m learning to follow my intuition. 

So, when I hear about others following techniques that seem ignorantly abusive towards their children, emotionally traumatic at the very least, I can’t help but judge. I don’t feel that treating any child this way is acceptable. In most cases, what I label as emotionally abusive parenting arises not from what others do partake in, but actually from what they don’t do - An absence of connection, listening, touching, acknowledgement and physically showing love. Shaming is something I judge as well, (just had to add that to the list).

Disclaimer: I’m not claiming that I have any of this mothering thing figured out!

I’m learning everyday - mostly by making mistakes and feeling quite guilty about them afterwards. This being said, I do have strong intentions of how I would like to parent and they constantly guide me to try to be the best mother I can be, even when it feels like it opposes the norm. 

I’m not going to expand on this example as it will turn into an emotionally driven roller coaster packed with indignant reasons why I’m right and another is wrong, which I hate hate hate. I am, however, prepared to question myself…

I recognize that the most powerful critic of my life choices and decisions is my inner critic. I recognise that I’m always trying to be a good person and understandably I’m inspired and strangled by my greatest karmic gift - a laser sharp intuition and the ability to see, hear and feel everything, (especially things that aren’t even mine to feel). I recognize that despite my unique gifts, I must remain both a teacher and a humble student, constantly cycling between knowing and being and doing. 

I admit that my ability to discern what I should care about is sometimes biased, ignorant and blurred. I recognise that I’m still amidst a deep process of defining my place in this world. At forty-one, I’m still learning to use my adult voice. 

Regardless of my ‘accepted flaws’, I’m having a hard time accepting my judgment of others, and motherhood has taken my passion to a whole other level. 

Perhaps it’s okay to admit that I judge you if you don’t agree with me?

Perhaps this is where a concept ends and necessary universal transformation begins?

Is it possible that I'm trying to convince myself to share more of the truths that remain nestled intimately next to my heart? 

Now yuck, wouldn’t this expose me to the judgment of others too?

Absolutely it will. 

Let's hope I’m now strong enough to know it’s happening and continue to speak anyways. Maybe this could enable a deeper understanding of my own vulnerable and imperfect being? Would this allow others to explore and accept their own perfectly flawed characters as well?

So why am I suddenly considering sitting in the vulnerable seat again?

I’ll tell you - When I’m repeatedly woken up at 3am by strings of words, phrases, titles and concepts knocking at the walls of my cognitive brain, I get a sense it’s only fair to offer them a platform. They may not even be entirely my thoughts anyways, who knows where it all comes from? 

So here’s to sharing that which feels true today, knowing that tomorrow it may no longer hold its worth. 

Here’s to exposing my vulnerable cavities, the ones I’ve kept closed for a couple of years. As I begin feeling and sharing and judging the opposite, you are welcome to judge me too. I cringe saying it but I guess that’s just how growth works...

xx

Illustration by artist Jungsuk Lee

In Awe

It's another chilly Monday morning and I left the house twenty minutes early, allowing myself time to meditate before teaching.

Despite years of practice, I still find waking up any time prior to 6am painful, so setting my alarm twenty minutes early doesn't change a thing. Knowing how much I get from even a few minutes of presence and breath awareness strengthens my commitment to stick to this habit.

I am proud to say, I've been sitting for twenty minutes every Monday morning for close to a year and in hindsight, I wouldn't trade even one of those minutes for sleep.

As I sat in the warmth of the small white yoga room, I recalled the teachings of one of my wise spiritual mentors, Dr. NC. He shared an important concept that resonated with me - Until I am properly able to contemplate death, I cannot fully appreciate my life, nor will I have access to bliss (the ultimate goal of the yoga practice).

Life free from fluctuations of fear, lust, anger, desire, anxiety and any limitations coming from the ignorance of my mind cannot be silenced until I experience what it is like to die.

My interpretation of his view on death is that it is neither good, nor bad, but simply a neutral part of the process of consciousness. Freedom from physical life may very well contain much more light than we assume, and when I sit and consider what it would be like to have the physical energy gone from my body, I am left with a non-negotiable stillness.

What I interpret from Dr. NC's message is that I should not fear death, it could be the greatest experience of them all. If I'm going to waste energy on fear, it should be the concern for not experiencing my life fully. 

Propped up on my bolster, I completed my six rounds of alternate nostril breath. This practice always relieves me from the chaotic and familiar headspace I live in most of the day.

For some reason today, I heard Dr. NC’s words, 'Practice contemplating death by practicing being dead’. As an effective tool to train our minds into stillness, my teacher recommended sitting absolutely still for twenty minutes minimum. When I say still, I mean not even a flutter or a twitch. 'Be a statue', he advised.

I had ten minutes left in my twenty minute sitting commitment so I thought, 'Why not, let’s see how I go?'

I find it easy to sit still on certain days and very challenging on others. Today felt accessible. My breath was present so I began to watch it and made the decision not to move, (sometimes a decision is all it takes).

As movement ceased, the first sensation I noticed was my pulse. The rhythm of my heart is mostly not within my control and I have always found that fact fascinating. In that quiet moment, driven by curiosity of my bodies' own natural engine, I became overwhelmed with a sense of deep love and gratitude for the life that is always pumping through me. 

That’s all I felt - how happy I am with the mysterious body I get to live in. I recognize how often I disrespect my body, mostly by ignoring its requests (Otherwise known as….not making the time to listen).

This morning I listened and within the stillness there was an unlimited source of energy beneath the surface of my skin. A forward pumping. A vibration moving outwards...

I sat perfectly still for the ten minute commitment and I considered how amazing it is to be alive. That’s all, I'm just so lucky to be alive.

Lise x

Messages From The Sea

I love to write because there’s a possibility to look at every life topic from a fresh perspective.

Depending on my daily mental filter, my observations may arise from a humble and authentic place. On certain days I may seem exceptionally positive, others, strictly realistic. At times I like to explore beneath the surface and research my behaviour and its’ impact on others.

Whether it’s a simple reflection or a character analysis, I love when someone says something that makes me think, that opens my eyes and therefore, I am committed to being entirely candid with you.

I respect genuine communication, people who are capable of talking about what’s really going on. There’s a difference between being dramatic and being honest. I will be honest with you. Sometimes I am incredibly excited about life and at other moments I acknowledge my challenges. I believe we learn from each other.

I will write thoughts about observing life through my eyes, through the eyes of an ocean enthusiast. I am a woman who attempts to work with flow everyday. Some days I am a student, and on the fortunate others, I step into the teachers seat.

As if I had the experience and wisdom of the sea, of nature, I share from either my heart, mind, experience or an ability to listen to the other side of the story.

I hope you enjoy.
xx